


Trinity

by Anonymous



Category: Mighty Boosh (TV), The IT Crowd
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-01
Updated: 2012-09-01
Packaged: 2017-11-13 08:13:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,767
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/501363
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Richmond from The IT Crowd is adopted by Anthrax and Ebola from The Mighty Boosh when he's a baby goth who no one in the scene will talk to.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Trinity

The first few times Richmond went out on the scene he was largely ignored by everyone else. He thought that perhaps that was part of the air of studied apathy that seemed to permeate all of goth culture, but eventually he figured it out. He was a... what was it that Roy had said the other day. Oh yes, a noob.   
  
It was really rather depressing, here he was among his own people and he was as ignored there as he was at work. Even if he wasn't in a room all by himself here, he might as well have been.   
  
Oh well, at least there was absinthe.   
  
Within seconds of that thought entering his mind, his drink was knocked out of his hand as a short, or perhaps petite was the correct word, young woman was pushed against him by the slowly undulating crowd, jostling his shoulder.   
  
She turned to look at him and smiled slowly, exposing sharp elongated canines like a vampire's fangs. He thought they must be false, although body modification was taken rather seriously hereabouts, so who knew?   
  
“I'm terribly sorry,” he said, gulping nervously, slightly intimidated by her feral grin. He hadn't seen a goth girl smiling before, he'd thought there were rules, or at least guidelines, against it.  
  
“S'alright,” the girl said, lifting up a hand to stroke his hair, “You're pretty.”   
  
Richmond blinked, by now completely out of his depth.   
  
“Oh, um, that's lovely of you to say,” he stammered, “you're very beautiful.”   
  
She nodded, as though he had said something like 'the sky is blue' or 'Robert Smith has fantastic hair'.   
  
Her eyes drifted towards his throat and she trailed a fingertip against his jugular. His eyes remained glued to her parted lips as she moved slowly closer to him, teeth bared in a silent snarl, before she stopped with her head tucked just underneath his chin. He felt his Adam's apple bob nervously and bump against her mouth, and her soft breath warm against his skin. After an eternity she closed her mouth and pressed a gentle kiss against his neck and he sighed in relief.   
  
Out of the corner of his eye he noticed another girl walking purposefully in their direction. His chest seized up, almost fearful of the look on her face.   
  
“Do you, do you, that is to say, you don't happen to be here with someone?” he said, looking down at the top of the other girl's dark head.   
  
She looked up into his eyes and smiled beatifically, her whole face lighting up like it was backlit by a thousand megawatt light bulbs.   
  
“Ebola!” and she said delightedly, leaving him utterly confused, as she turned to the newcomer with an expression of near irrepressible joy.   
  
The other girl was by their side now, frowning slightly with her hands on her hips. She was as fair as the other girl was dark, though they were both as pale as untouched snow.   
  
“I've found a new puppy,” the dark girl said to her companion (Ebola? What an unusual name. He vaguely wished he had thought of it first).   
  
“Anthrax,” Ebola said flatly, her lips pressed into a thin red line, “Let him go, he doesn't like it.”   
  
Richmond felt like he should intercede, he didn't want to hurt the dark girl's,  _Anthrax_  he corrected himself in his mind, feelings and make her feel as though she was unwelcome. She was the first person to talk to him in this club after all and he'd been going here for almost two months. It was nice to have someone to talk to.   
  
“Oh, it's no trouble,” he said, fanning his hands out in front of him palm first.   
  
“See!” Anthrax squeezed his arm and smiled back up at him. He managed a shy smile back.   
  
Ebola sighed with an air of one making a great concession and rolled her eyes. Richmond noticed for the first time that her eyes didn't match, she was wearing a contact lens in one, and admired the effect in had on her face.   
  
*   
  
He learned over the next few weeks, that Anthrax and Ebola were living in a small house together in Shoreditch. During the day Anthrax worked as a secretary with her face scrubbed clean, her hair in a sensible ponytail, wearing pencil skirts and white blouses. She hated it and wanted to someday be able to live off the SF and fantasy short stories she wrote freelance. Ebola was a medical student, “training to be a mad scientist,” she'd said to him completely straight faced, and she worked three nights a week in the morgue at the hospital.   
  
They were lovely girls, though he'd certainly never say that to their face, or at least not to Ebola, and they taught him all sorts of things. They lived together in a happy state of near poverty, spending all their money on clothes and going out (though they didn't spend a great deal of money past the cover charge in most clubs, seeing as they never bought own drinks). If it was a choice between a pair of boots that had caught one the pair's eyes or eating meat that month, the footwear would win out every time.   
  
The first time he'd gone over to their house (it was tiny and ramshackle, making him deeply embarrassed of his well lit open plan penthouse) he'd thought they were vegetarian, seeing the amount of chick peas, soy and potatoes that they ate, but it was just because they could get those things cheaply in bulk.   
  
“You can live very well on potatoes,” Anthrax had told him, “They have as much vitamin C as oranges.”   
  
Anthrax was full of such advice. She'd also counselled him to cut his own hair to save money and to make sure that no one could cast a spell on him by stealing his offcuts. Though he'd nodded sombrely at this, he'd quietly decided that perhaps not all of her advice was completely on the money.   
  
Still though, his acquaintanceship, nay friendship, he thought hesitantly, with the girls had proved invaluable. For they were the first to give him what he had lacked since the first time he'd heard Dani Filth scream exquisite torture through his earphones to his very soul. Acceptance.   
  
“All goths know each other, like cats,” Ebola had said to him sternly one day and he'd looked back, surprised.   
  
“And pregnant ladies,” Anthrax added, Ebola nodding primly  
  
“Exactly, and just like them-”   
  
“We all hate each other,” Anthrax finished, smiling widely at him, no fangs today.   
  
He stared blankly at them, clutching the cup of tea that he'd been given when he sat down in their living room.   
  
“Well, maybe not  _hate_ , but it's very clique-y,” she went on, and stirred her own tea, “Everyone hates snobs who act all 'more gothic than thou' but not nearly as much as everyone  _detests_  weekenders and people who just haven't been into it as long as they have. Oh the hypocrisy!” she giggled and stirred her tea.   
  
“Oh,” Richmond looked down rather glumly, “How long does it take for one to be considered legitimate?”   
  
“Depends,” Anthrax shrugged, “But for you, not long, because we're adopting you. You can be my brother if you like, you look a bit like me.”   
  
*  
  
Under their wing, he'd thrived in the community, suddenly accepted where he'd been outright scorned previously. Sometimes he was introduced as Anthrax's twin, sometimes as her lover, sometimes as Ebola's, sometimes  _both_  (he'd always betray himself with a blush when they would press into his sides in tandem and press kisses into his hair and the side of his neck. He was by no means a prude, but within mere weeks of knowing them thinking of them in a sexual context brought on the same horror as thinking of his own mother  _in flagrante delicto_ ), but the inconsistencies were hand waved. As long as he was being introduced by one of them, it didn't seem to matter what it was he had been introduced  _as_.   
  
Eventually he began to be recognized and remembered even without them, and he started going out on his own more and more. They were still friends of course, but he was not nearly as dependent on them as he had been. At first he'd felt horrendously guilty, but they'd assured him that there was no need, they'd  _wanted_  this for him and he should by all means enjoy the benefit of all their hard work.   
  
Days turned into weeks, weeks turned into months and eventually it was over a year since he'd seen them.   
  
He was getting along better with his work mates these days and he was never as lonely as he had been those first few months he'd spent as a goth. He was... happy. Content. Accepted. Then, of course, he'd gotten scurvy and all his tenuous friendships had dried up save for a few emails from Moss occasionally.  
  
He lay on his depressingly beige sofa and stared at the glass of fizzing vitamin C on the low coffee table in front of him.  
  
He should really drink that. In a minute perhaps.  
  
He drifted off into a fitful sleep, his dreams full of unhappy puppies sitting in puddles and baby bats without nests in a storm.  
  
A loud knocking woke him and he stared for a few seconds at his own front door without moving. Finally he drew a thin blanket around his shoulders and walked with trepidation towards the door, opening it on the safety chain. He was greeted by Ebola's most angry scowl through the narrow gap and he did a slight double take, hurrying to open the door fully.  
  
“We buzzed all of the flats, someone always is expecting someone,” Anthrax said smugly as she walked in. Ebola dropped a twenty five kilo bag of potatoes inside his doorway, swearing under her breath, and joined her.  
  
“Come in,” Richmond said, redundantly as they were already inside, looking his barely lived in home.  
  
“We couldn't get through to you at your work, they said you were ill,” Anthrax frowned at him this time, walking over to lay a hand on his forehead, “Scurvy, you absolute idiot, how you managed it I'll never know.”  
  
He felt embarrassed by everything from his bland tasteful furniture to his bleeding gums and yellowed eyes.  
  
“Well, don't worry,” she patted his hand and led him back to the sofa, where he sat with his thumb resting against his lower lip. “We're here now.”  
  
And they were.  
  
For the first time in two weeks, Richmond smiled. 


End file.
